


Him Again

by Astrodynamicist



Series: The Pit Dragons of Alternia [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blood and Gore, Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, F/M, Inspired by the Pit Dragon Chronicles, POV Animal, cockfighting but with dragons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-26
Updated: 2014-05-26
Packaged: 2018-01-26 16:22:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1694717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Astrodynamicist/pseuds/Astrodynamicist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You sniff the air for him. This narrow path must get you closer. You have to fight him, scar him, shatter his bones and rend his flesh and HURT HIM. The winding corridor ends against a thick metal wall. You slam one forefoot against it and it doesn’t give even one inch. You scream again, frustrated, and the smallest tongue of flame darts out of your mouth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Him Again

**Author's Note:**

> So, when I first read the prompt that inspired the first fic in this series, my brain accidentally a word - specifically the word "first" - and the original thing I wrote to fill the prompt (ie this) was an arbitrary fight between Pyralspite and Lemonsnout instead of their first fight. I decided I liked it and didn't feel like rewriting it, so what became the actual prompt ended up with this as a sequel.
> 
> Incidentally, I don't plan to write more in this series, but I did enjoy writing these so I guess we'll see.

The arena is a dizzying storm of sound and scent. The sickly-sour smell of the fluorescent lights hanging far above you from the cavern ceiling mixes with a dozen sharp flavors of blood. The crowd’s roaring waxes and wanes but never ceases, rolling over you again and again like ocean swells. The noise is punctuated by the distant and muffled screeches of other dragons. You fidget in your holding cell. Your talons slide out, burrow anxiously in the sand below you. The grit gets in between your scales. It itches, and you scratch harder. You imagine that the sand doesn’t give so easily, pretend it’s some opponent’s leathery belly. Your talons slide all the way out and click against the stone floor beneath.

“Shh.” Mother-Mistress croons from her perch above you. “Shh. You’ll get to show them what a good fighter you are soon enough. Shh.”

You are in the midst of trying to crane your head around in the tiny space to sniff her when you smell _him_.

 _HIM_. 

Bronze-bastard-hatefuck-rotten-garbage-stink-HIM. 

The tarnished metal smell cuts through the rest, overwhelms even the cool sea-smell of Mother-Mistress and you _SCREAM_. 

You scream like metal rending, and he screams back to you. Rage bubbles in your belly, heat presses behind your unseeing eyes. You growl and the growl rises into another blood curdling SHRIEK. 

“Shh. Save for it for the ring.” 

You roar, then snort. Wisps of smoke dribble from between your teeth. 

“ _Save it_ , Pyralspite.”

You bite down on another screech. 

The gate in front of you opens with rough squeals and you charge ahead through the narrow wooden corridors. You sniff the air for him. This narrow path must get you closer. You have to fight him, scar him, shatter his bones and rend his flesh and HURT HIM. The winding corridor ends against a thick metal wall. You slam one forefoot against it and it doesn’t give even one inch. You scream again, _frustrated_ , and the smallest tongue of flame darts out of your mouth. 

Something narrow and round and hard bonks you in the head. “Save it.” You sniff above and to the left of you. Mother-Mistress stands above the entry-box, cane in hand. Every inch of her smells stern. You set your shoulders and square yourself against the door. You are better than this. He will not get the better of you. 

Words grate high and tinny, announcing the fight, and then suddenly the door is flung wide and you rush out. 

It _is_ him. 

You shriek again, all joy and hate and rage, and you charge him. He charges you. The arena vibrates under your feet. You can smell every detail now, the whiff of mint-vomit of his eyes and the splash of piss-yellow across his face stand clear against the tarnished-bronze background scent of his scales. You thunder closer-- 

And _closer_ \-- 

And at the last second you both swerve aside, getting so close you can even smell the forest-mulch scent of his blood under it all. The crowd screams and whistles above you. You whirl back around to face him again, turning as tight as possible, trying to get the advantage on him. 

You don’t, quite, but he doesn’t beat you either. You both circle the arena slowly, your snout locked on his. He growls, whistles at you. Wiggles his wings mockingly. You don’t rise to his bait. You aren’t that stupid, and you _won’t_ disgrace Mother-Mistress. You screech back a challenge, then lean your head back and shoot a jet of blue-white flame straight up to the ceiling. 

Which, as it turns out, is a mistake. 

A huge weight crashes against your shoulder and hot pain rips down parallel to your spine. You scream in pain and your rage redoubles. _BASTARD_. You twist around, trying to get some purchase against him, but you’re falling, crashing hard against the sand. Your wind is half knocked out of you and you can hardly wiggle beneath him. He pulls his foreleg back to slash you again, and you manage to pull a hind leg up to claw at his belly. The blow is glancing, but he still recoils. 

His wings, spread wide for balance as he rode you to the floor, now present an enormous target. You lunge forward, sinking your teeth in the thin tissue. Mulch-taste floods your mouth and you snap down again, and again. Narrow bones crunch and his screams become almost deafening.

Good. 

He yanks his wing from your jaws and jerks sideways. Enough of his weight slides off of you and you can surge up and forward. One great push and now he’s at the disadvantage. You surge forward again, barrelling into his chest and knocking him over. His breath _huffs_ out in one big pathetic gasp, and so instead of digging talons into flesh you instead rear up and slam the full force of your weight into him. 

His ribs crack. You can _smell_ the pain. 

You repeat the move. He whimpers feebly, without enough air to scream. Then you pin one forefoot over his neck, just below his head. He squirms, but between the broken ribs and the way your weight is half-choking him, he can’t free himself. You slash one great strike across his face, then another, gifting him with new scarring marks to match those you gave him last time, and those he gave you the time before. You crow your triumph to the ceiling and the crowd cheers louder than ever. 

Without realizing, you let some of your weight off the foot holding his neck down. 

Faster than you can track, he twists his head and in one big, agonizing breath belches golden fire right up your other forearm. You shriek with pain and collapse sideways. 

He hauls himself to his feet. You curl around yourself, protecting your vital bits. Which, of course, leaves your wings vulnerable. He gets his teeth in one pane of your wing and just _rips_. A scream chased by more blue-white fire bursts out of you. 

He rips and rips, one forearm braced against your side. And you realize that he’s left his scaleless belly wide open. You punch your talons forward, leave deep, angry gashes in his unarmored skin. The sluice of blood over old scars gives you a pang of nostalgia, and a brief rush of satisfaction. But you’re far from in the clear. 

You surge up again, trying to stand, but your burnt leg gives out. You crash down again. He crashes with you, though, so you strike his belly again. He twists his neck around to bite your flank but you flap your bleeding wing in his face, distracting and disorienting him. Your claws strike again.

His leathery belly is a shredded mess, reeking of mulch, and finally, finally he staggers back off of you just to get out of range. You roll to your feet, this time mindful of your injured leg. For a moment, the two of you just stand there, snouts locked on each other. Then in the same instant, you both suck in breath to release final gouts of fire. 

Yours shoots out first. 

You blast fire down his back. He tries ducking to avoid it, but his muscles give out and he falls flat, unable to dodge the attack. He shrieks. You limp over to his neck, and he whimpers, then pisses himself. It is the sweet smell of his surrender. You lower your jaws and grasp his throat, pressing teeth hard against his skin. But instead of biting down, you merely scrape shallow lines across it. No sense in killing him outright. He’ll weather his wounds or he won’t. And if he does, well.

When mating season rolls around, you might just have a worthy partner again.


End file.
